Ware. Peace, here he comes.
SCENE III.
Enter Plotwell, in a sad posture. Warehouse, Plotwell, Cypher.
Ware. Good morrow, nephew. How now? sad? how comes
This melancholy?
Plot. Can I choose but wear
Clouds in my face, when I must venture, sir,
Your reverend age to a long-doubtful voyage,
And not partake your dangers?
Ware. Fie! these fears,
Though they become you, nephew, are ominous.
When heard you from your father?
Plot. Never since
He made the escape, sir.
Ware. I hear he is in Ireland:
Is't true he took your sister with him?
Plot. So
Her mistress thinks, sir: one day she left th' Exchange,
And has not since been heard of.
Ware. And, nephew,
How like you your new course; which place prefer you—
The Temple or Exchange? Where are, think you,
The wealthier mines—in the Indies or
Westminster Hall?